


what are the odds

by Togaki



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu gets trolled, Family Dynamics, M/M, crackfic, crazy cousins, inappropriate slandering of Salvation Army Santa Claus’, well think again, you thought Atsumu and Osamu were bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Togaki/pseuds/Togaki
Summary: Sometimes, family means enjoying a playful game pulled from your youth as you’re stranded at the supermarket.And sometimes, it means shoving two fingers up your cousin’s nostrils and telling St. Dick to go fuck himself.
Relationships: Komori Motoya & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 124





	what are the odds

**Author's Note:**

> For context: "What Are The Odds" is a simple game where you dare another player to do a ridiculous task. One player asks another how likely they are to complete a dare, and then the second player picks a number between 2 and 20 as a limit for a number range. Both players then choose a number within the range. If you say the same number, the person who was dared must follow through with it!
> 
> Did I just steal that from WikiHow? Yes. I might have modified it a little, but you get the point.

“What are the odds you’ll pick up a live crab from the seafood section and hold it up like Simba from  _ The Lion King  _ while singing Led Zeppelin?” Motoya asks. 

“ _ Zero _ ,” Kiyoomi grits out, nails digging into arms as he glares past the automatic doors. All those people exiting the supermarket peacefully are wretched. They’re terrible creatures who have lucked out in the game of life, and they deserve to be punished this blithely wintry day for existing. 

“Hey, that’s not the game,” Motoya says, all too happily ignoring Kiyoomi’s social cues to  _ shut the fuck up _ . He should have bought duct tape. Instead, all he has are frozen meat, soap, and Motoya’s fucking Lucky Charms crammed into his shopping cart. 

Bouncing on his heels to the beat of the nearby Santa’s atrocious bell ringing, Motoya says, “Remember, it’s between 2 and 20. Don’t be a sourpuss, Kiyo.” 

Kiyoomi’s patience thins from “nonexistent” to “nil.” In translation, this means that Kiyoomi has been fed up with Motoya since the womb.

He huffs. “What are the odds that  _ you’ll _ go drown in the frozen water of Shibuya River if I pay a cab to take you there?” 

Motoya hums. He places a hand on his chin, thinking thoughtfully for approximately 2.081 seconds. “Hmm. Ten, maybe?” 

High odds. 

They count. 

“Okay, 3—”

“2—”

“1—”

“Nine.” 

“Seven.” 

Kiyoomi curses loudly. Motoya cheers and runs around in a circle, like he’s a dog chasing his own proud, wagging tail. 

Abruptly, Motoya stops next to Kiyoomi, who has one foot propped up on their shopping cart, and two hands now knuckle-white with a death grip on the handle. Motoya blinks twice, shivers from the infiltrative cold air, and then says, “Hey, what are the odds that you’ll call Atsumu and beg him to hurry up with your keys?”

At that, Kiyoomi lets out a lamentable gasp like he’s about to cry. Maybe he is. After all, they’ve been stuck at the supermarket for approximately half an hour, taking shelter in between the automatic doors that wave customers in with a cheery beep, and every single time a Salvation Army Santa man walks up with his jingle bell asking for donations, Kiyoomi wants to throw down his can of cinnamon dough and shout, “ _ Is that what you want? Is it? Well, ho ho ho, merry  _ fucking _ Christmas, St. Dick _ .” 

This all could have been avoided had Kiyoomi not been distracted by Motoya’s incessant nagging this afternoon, prodding him to “hurry up,  _ god _ , you’re such an old  _ grandpa _ , Kiyo,” when he had been meticulously going through his home routine. 

Purse: check. Wallet: check. ID in case somebody decides to card Motoya at the alcohol line: check. 

He’d been in the middle of making sure he’d tucked in his double-layer socks to go outside when Motoya all but manhandled him out the door of his apartment. He grabbed the wrong keys in the process, and the last thing he heard before he was carted off to his dire December doom was “Love ya, baby! Don’t forget my cinnamon buns!” 

That had been two hours ago, back when Kiyoomi was still sure the keys in his pockets were the right ones and not the spare desperately needing a battery change because life decided to extravagantly putter out like last year’s guinea pigs for his homemade quiche.

He rolls Mr. Pillsbury Doughboy between his frosted fingertips, chilled by the wind that blows in with every open and close of the automatic doors, and wonders if Atsumu loves him enough to forgive him if he has to double-back from the supermarket to the police station if Kiyoomi gives in to his deep desire to bludgeon this teasingly close Santa Claus with his own cinnamon kin. 

Motoya notices where Kiyoomi’s eyes are, and he not-so-sneakily blocks his view of the glutinous man. 

“Well?”

Kiyoomi chokes out a sob. He tries to reign it in. “Twenty.” 

Motoya raises an eyebrow. He knows him too well. “You sure?”

Kiyoomi shakes and nods his head at the same time, only providing further support for Motoya’s thesis on the instability of Kiyoomi’s mental state. He’s cold, he’s tired, and he’s emotionally put-out from entertaining the elementary games of his supposedly “older” cousin, while battling his inner instinct to go ape-shit due to a circumstance he had no way of preparing for. Because again. Motoya. 

He wishes it weren’t rush hour. 

“Five,” he says, redacting his earlier bet. 

Motoya slumps. He was expecting higher odds. 

“Okay, ready?”

“3—”

“2—”

“1—”

“Four.”

“Two.” 

Kiyoomi whips his head, outraged. “ _ Four _ ! Really?!” 

Motoya balks. “Why not? It’s a good number!” 

“It means  _ death _ , Motoya! Which is exactly what will happen to  _ us _ if we stay here with St.  _ Dick _ for five fucking more minutes!” 

“Stop exaggerating! We’re literally at the grocery store!”

Yes. They are. And people are staring. A child starts crying, and St. Dick directs a disgusted look at Kiyoomi as he offers the child a candy cane, and maybe a not-so-subtle suggestion to donate.

Motoya stands taller, like a puffed-up peacock. There’s no one to impress. 

“Fine! If you want Atsumu to come so badly, then ask me the same question.”

Kiyoomi does. 

This time, there’s almost no room for error, because Motoya has chosen “two,” and they both say “one” at the same time, because they both hate themselves. 

Perhaps Motoya hates himself more, because god knows how much he’s grown to dislike Kiyoomi’s boyfriend over the years. Starting in phases, it began with a cheery  _ Hey, Atsumu, what’s up _ in their early pubescent years, and later turned into  _ Ugh _ during holiday greetings in their withering-adult prime. 

Which is exactly how Motoya greets Atsumu now when he answers the phone. 

“ _ Well, gee, good to hear from ya, too, Moto-kun _ .” 

Motoya grimaces. Shifting on the balls of his feet, Motoya brings the phone to his other ear. Kiyoomi dodges the wheels of an incoming cart pushed by an old lady who gives him the stink eye, and he orients himself and his bulky cart on Motoya’s other side so he can listen as well. 

“How far are you, Atsumu?” Motoya asks, disgruntled. Years of accumulated pettiness dies hard.

Atsumu mulls the thought over with an uninterested hum. “ _ For you? Maybe next year. For Omi? I’d say about ten minutes if I ignore traffic laws and drive about sixty like there aren't thousands of cars with breakable children in front of me. _ ” 

For Motoya, who still has a moral bone left in his body, the answer is to drive like a safe and sound citizen. 

For Kiyoomi, who has been pulling the threads out of his home-knit mittens for the past twenty minutes, the answer comes with a few loose brain cells. 

“Floor it, Atsumu. I just want to leave. Please.” 

Motoya pulls his phone away abruptly. He holds it about two feet from his body as he shoots Kiyoomi a dirty look. “Hey! It’s  _ my _ loss! Why are  _ you _ the one begging?”

“Then beg better, Motoya! I don’t see my keys yet!” 

“Fuck you! I just want  _ one _ day during Christmas where you aren’t blowing your top off at nothing!”

“Well, if  _ you _ weren’t such an impatient man-brat, I would have grabbed the  _ right _ keys, and Atsumu wouldn’t have to go to jail for us!”

“ _ Wait, what?! _ ” Atsumu panics, as he should. 

Kiyoomi and Motoya bicker, like good cousins do. They bicker, like homicidal cousins do. And if it weren’t for the fact that Atsumu was still on the line, privy to their entire cousin-ly exchange, Kiyoomi wouldn’t hesitate to maul Motoya. 

But alas, it wouldn’t do for Atsumu to pass out from hyperventilating when he’s in the middle of bringing Kiyoomi’s keys. He knows how he is with gore. He knows that Atsumu is a weak man. And no matter how often his boyfriend fights with Osamu, he’s got nothing on the blood battles between him and Motoya. 

Kiyoomi’s got two thumbs shoved up Motoya’s nostrils, and Motoya has one hand smushing Kiyoomi’s pretty pink cheeks together while the other holds up his phone, relaying the entire ordeal to an alarmed Atsumu, who picks up speed faster than a humping hyena. 

Motoya’s voice comes out high-pitched and nasally due to Kiyoomi’s thumbs rammed up his nose. “Oh, grow up, Kiyo! It’s not like we’re stuck at a garbage dump!”

Kiyoomi’s voice is muffled, and he can only hope the glare in his eyes is as piercing as the long-ass finger nails digging into his face. “You should have just gone back to your mother for the holidays! At least then you could have been surrounded by  _ love _ during your fucking  _ Christmas _ !” 

Motoya lets out an appalled squeal. He starts pulling hair. 

People are video-taping. This will certainly be a surprise present for management tomorrow. 

“ _ You _ ,” Motoya shouts, breathless. It comes out as a harsh wheeze.  _ “You are  _ so _ mean _ !” 

“Well, what are the odds of that!” Kiyoomi laughs hysterically. It’s a strange sound, only ever produced during the manic fights Motoya draws out of him, or when he runs out of his favorite lavender hand soap—which, he happened to restock on today.

Motoya’s foot starts kicking weakly at Kiyoomi’s shin. “What are the odds of you being on the _ nice _ list for once!”

“Fifty!”

“ _ Such low odds _ !”

“As if you don’t think so!” Kiyoomi says. 

“You’re right!” 

“3—”

“2—”

“1—”

“Forty-seven!”

“Fifty-two!”

“ _ Why _ ?” Komori screams, reduced to a crying infant. “That wasn’t even part of the odds!”

The look Kiyoomi gives is heart-stopping. He stares into Komori’s eyes, like he plans on stealing his ether. 

His voice is a whisper, accompanied by a euphoric upward slant of the lips. “ _ Because I can _ .” 

Motoya shivers, scared. 

A car races into the parking lot, its high-pitch squeal sending a flurry of worried and angry mothers and Santas clear of the path. 

In a frantic rush, Atsumu clambers out of the driver’s door, Kiyoomi’s precious keys dangling tantalously from his left hand, and races to the automatic doors where Kiyoomi and Motoya have since turned the space into a battle ring. 

“ _ Omi _ !” 

Atsumu comically pushes Motoya aside like he’s an extra in a movie, completely uncaring to the libero’s grossly oversized nostrils that Kiyoomi split open, and worriedly, he wraps his hands around Kiyoomi’s arms. His eyes scan him up and down, searching for notable injuries. 

As if Kiyoomi would be injured by Motoya. How insulting. 

Kiyoomi scoffs. He swats Atsumu’s hands off of him. “Stop it, Atsumu. You’re making a scene. It’s embarrassing.” 

Atsumu squawks. “ _ I’m _ embarrassing  _ you _ ?” 

As if Kiyoomi hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes making a fool of himself, of Motoya, and by extension, of Atsumu, while waiting for his keys to come. 

He crosses his arms. 

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu swivels and begs for support in a disinterested Motoya, who hums derisively at him. 

“ _ Moto-kun _ ,” Atsumu whines. 

“Oh, thanks for noticing me. I seem to remember you shoving me aside for your dear, precious Kiyo approximately 3.2 seconds ago. Thanks again for that, by the way.” 

Helpless, Atsumu turns back to Kiyoomi. 

With a pointed glare, Kiyoomi says, “That’s right, Atsumu. That’s not nice. I know you don’t like Motoya, but he’s still family.” 

“That’s right, I’m still family!” Motoya cheers. 

“Shut up, Motoya.” 

Kiyoomi holds out his hand, palm up, waiting. Confused, Atsumu just puts his own hand in his. 

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “Not that. The keys.” 

He hands over the keys, glum. 

“Do I at least get a kiss for bringing them to ya?” Atsumu asks, hopeful. 

Kiyoomi turns his head to Motoya. “Hey, Motoya. What are the odds that we leave Atsumu here on the curb for St. Dick to solicit while we head back to enjoy my lavender hand soap and your Lucky Charms cereal?”

“One,” Motoya says instantly. 

“One?” 

“One.” 

Kiyoomi brandishes one last look at Atsumu, who has his mouth agape, gawking, as he says, “Well, there you have it. We’re leaving.”

“Wait… But—”

He feels good when the car beeps, opening. Motoya follows him, pushing the shopping cart. They pull out of the parking lot with a loud, high-pitch squeal, blaring “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” as they honk at Atsumu. 

Atsumu stands, shocked. A child points at him. 

St. Dick walks up, bell jingling. 

“Would you like to donate?”

“...Sure.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/togaki_tana)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/togaki-kun)


End file.
